


Berlin, Indiana

by pockettreatpete



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Ending, LWR 'verse, M/M, otp: wait that's my word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pockettreatpete/pseuds/pockettreatpete
Summary: An alternate ending to "Longest Way Round".
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Berlin, Indiana

**Author's Note:**

> Longest Way Round AU. Diverges from morning of Iowa caucuses. No caucus app and no corona because this is my story and I hate both the app and the rona. 
> 
> I came across the true story of the extinct town of Berlin, Indiana more or less by accident, and had IRL Pete not used the whole ass Joyce quote in his drop-out speech it's possible Chastened would have used it for the ending of LWR, but alas. So here's my take.
> 
> Thank you Chastened for inventing this universe and for so endlessly graciously allowing me to play around in it.

**I.**

He’s explained the origin of the term ‘shell shock’ to students from time to time, how it originated in World War I based on what psychologists observed in soldiers at the front lines and how it shifted over time as understanding increased and wars changed. 

He’s not sure he’s ever truly understood the term before, but when the first results come in, he gets it. It feels like a bomb landed right outside the hotel room, like Des Moines was fucking flattened around them with no notice at all, and he can’t find his words or move his limbs. To his right, Mike is leaning forward slowly, resting his elbows on his thighs and hiding his face in his hands. To Mike’s right, Lis gets up and starts pacing, clutching her phone limply. Her face is pinched, her eyes narrow. 

He looks over at Pete, and he isn’t sure whether he’s surprised that Pete’s expression is carefully, painstakingly blank. 

The crestfallen quiet expands and expands and fills the room until it’s ringing in Chasten’s ears. It feels taunting. The jubilation that should rightfully be his has decamped to a hotel room across town. 

It hits him suddenly between the eyes: Pete will have to give a concession speech tonight. They need to write it. In their fucking hubris they only wrote the victory speech. The spike of panic tears him out of his stupor and he turns to Pete and leans forward to grab his laptop. 

“I wrote a concession speech,” Pete says, then, and Chasten stops in his tracks. Pete doesn’t look at him.

“When?”

Pete glances over at that, and Chasten watches as the corner of his mouth twitches wistfully. 

“Last night. I didn’t expect it to have to double as a drop-out so it’ll need revision.”

It’s funny, kind of, the way a single word can make the world feel like it’s ending. Pete gets up and walks his iPad over to Chasten. 

“I didn’t run it by Zev but I know what I want to say,” he says as he hands it over. He still hasn’t looked Chasten in the eye. 

He’s three lines in, already tearing up, before Mike finally speaks. His voice is hoarse. His red-rimmed eyes make Chasten feel things he’s not ready for yet.

“We’ve just decided you’re dropping out without any discussion?” 

“What is there to discuss?” Pete asks, more defeated than defensive. “Distant second in Iowa, and not even a clear second, dismantles our electability argument. We won’t get a poll bump, we won’t get a fundraising surge. We can quit now or we can quit in two weeks when our money runs out. The former at least has some form of dignity.”

“Know when to fold’em,” Lis agrees. Her voice is weirdly strangled. “We’ll be back.”

“Will we?” 

Chasten isn’t sure Pete meant it to be rhetorical, but nobody responds. Lis bites her lip and dumps back down on the couch next to Mike. Mike leans back and closes his eyes, sighing heavily. Chasten returns his attention to the document on screen in front of him. 

It’s beautiful. Because of course it is. Pete spins both prose and poetry like it’s _nothing_ and that may be both his most attractive and most infuriating quality.

“I should introduce you,” he says once he’s read it through. “If we’re really doing this,” he adds superfluously. 

Lis nods. “You should,” she says. She looks like she wants to say something more, but she doesn’t. 

Pete hesitates, but in the face of Chasten and Lis’ agreement he acquiesces, like always. He nods, then reaches out for his tablet and starts typing revisions. A collective sigh seems to pass through the room, and Mike gets up and goes to leave. 

“Mike,” Pete says, and Mike stops with his hand on the door handle. Pete doesn’t look up. “Make sure they file a new flight plan for the plane as soon as I’m on stage. I want to go home.” 

“What do we tell people who reach out about an endorsement?” Lis asks when the door shuts behind Mike. 

Pete closes his eyes briefly. “Biden’s or Warren’s people, tell them they can have their candidate reach out directly but I’m not going to make a move until after South Carolina. Sanders won’t reach out.” He opens his eyes, glances up and locks eyes with her. “If Klobuchar’s people call tell them to fuck off. As colorfully as you’d like.”

Chasten’s stomach lurches. Lis nods and leaves. Once they’re alone Pete returns his gaze to the screen in front of him but Chasten can tell his attention is elsewhere. He bites the inside of his cheek and waits for his husband to get his thoughts in order.

“When we get home,” Pete begins, haltingly. “We need to have a conversation.” 

“I know,” Chasten says. 

The full scope of their failure is still waiting to catch up with him, but he does realize this changes everything. The icy silence of the past few days, since the meeting with Amy, will have been just the beginning. He’s not ready to face it, not yet, so he reaches out for his own laptop. 

“I should get some notes down for my introduction,” he says, resolutely not looking at Pete. 

They work in silence until it’s time to go. 

**II.**

He doesn’t use his real name on his profile, but it turns out not to matter. 

“You’re Chasten Buttigieg,” Ryan, who is ‘not super political’, exclaims when he slides onto the bench opposite him in the booth.

“Glezman,” he answers, too abruptly. 

Ryan nods, but he’s amused by the exchange in a way Chasten doesn’t like. He’d been honest, when they chatted, that he was separated but not divorced yet, and Ryan hadn’t seemed to mind. Suddenly, irrationally, he wonders if Ryan is a Democrat and if he voted last month and if so for whom. 

Conversation is stilted and awkward, and Ryan asks too many questions about Pete. Chasten gives him the story he and Pete agreed on and signed their names to, about a hectic campaign straining a new marriage past its breaking point. Despite himself he remembers trying not to cry when he signed his name on the dotted line, and the way Pete’s hand shook when he reached for the pen. The memory makes his voice shake when he finally shrugs and says: “And then I moved back here.” 

“There was a story in t--” Ryan begins, and Chasten feels endlessly, bottomlessly tired when he interrupts him. 

“It’s not true.” 

Ryan looks unconvinced. “They quoted a friend of yours.”

“Actually, he’s an ex, and I haven’t talked to him since before I met Pete,” Chasten says. “He doesn’t know anything.” He knows he’s giving Ryan much more information than he deserves, but he can’t help himself. “He never hurt me,” he says, emptying his drink, and it’s the easiest lie he’s ever told, because it’s a certain kind of true. 

Pete never hurt him like that. When the journalist contacted him for a comment he said as much, and informed them their source was full of shit. It didn’t do much good. When the article came out he held out as long as he could bear before downloading the Twitter app again and reactivating his account. 

He spent arguably too many minutes staring at his last act of theater on Pete’s behalf, from the month before: The tweet that simply said ‘Sometimes love’s not enough’ over a screenshot of their carefully calibrated joint statement. He sighed and got to work changing his profile and switching out the campaign photo with a selfie. He went through about a dozen drafts before hitting on the right tone. ‘True things in that article: Names, dates, Pete ran for president. False things in that article: Everything else. Don’t believe everything you read, friends’, he typed out, finally, before closing the app again with a sigh. About fifteen seconds later two texts flew in. From Lis, a heart emoji. From Pete: ‘Thank you’. He didn’t reply to either one.

“So,” Ryan says, finishing his beer. “Are we doing this or what?” 

Chasten wants to laugh in Ryan’s smug face and hates that he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he says instead, and pushes away the voice in the back of his head, the one telling him he’s too good for meaningless encounters with guys who don’t respect him. It sounds suspiciously like Pete. As they go to leave, Ryan takes his hand and Chasten doesn’t care enough to wrest it loose. They walk right out into camera flashes. 

“What the fuck is this?” Ryan exclaims. 

“I’m sorry,” Chasten says, horrified, pulling his hand and dragging him out to the curb and into the Uber. 

“What. The fuck. Was that,” Ryan says when the door slams behind them. 

“I’m sorry,” Chasten says, again. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

Whatever half-way mood was there before, it’s gone. He drops Ryan off at his place with a shrug and another apology. 

“For the record,” Ryan throws over his shoulder as he gets out of the car, “your ex-husband is a fucking rat.” 

He’s about to go to bed when Lis calls. 

“So you’re on Page Six,” she says, her tone a careful neutral. 

“Shit. I’m sorry. I should have called you right away.”

Her voice is sharper now. “Yes, you fucking should have. Hookup, date or boyfriend?”

“Hookup.”

“Jesus. Could you for the love of God be a little discreet until the fucking ink is dry on your _fucking_ divorce?”

Her ire rankles him more than it used to. She used to be his person, it used to be him and her against the rest of them, but she stayed when Chasten left. She’s Pete’s person now. 

“I’d think you’d be happy.” He can hear how snippy he sounds and cringes. “It’s a compelling visual, him taking long lonely walks with the dogs in South Bend while I’m cavorting in Chicago.”

She goes quiet with what he assumes is self-consciousness at being read so well, but when she speaks again it’s clear it was rage. “A _compelling fucking visual_? Chasten, he’s not running for shit right now, I don’t give a fuck about the visual! He’s gonna see those photos, though hopefully not before I call him and tell him, and he’s gonna be fucking suicidal.”

He breathes. He counts his inhales and exhales, tries to calm his flaring anxiety. “I know. Tell him I’m sorry.”

“I’m not your divorce lawyer,” she says flatly. “I’m not going to be your go-between. You have something to say to him say it the fuck to him or find some other intermediary.”

“Lis,” he tries, helplessly. “I really just didn’t think. I didn’t do it to fuck with him. Please don’t think that.”

It takes her a minute to answer. “Put yourself in my shoes,” she says finally. 

“I’m no good with stilettos,” he jokes weakly but she blows right past it.

“You’ve seen and heard all the shit I’ve seen and heard these past three years. And now you see _you_ , out drinking with a Grindr hookup who is such a dead fucking ringer for your estranged husband that he could fucking play him on SNL. What exactly would _you_ think you were doing?”

His face burns. Her distrust in him burns, too, but not as much as the fucking humiliation of not realizing before she said it. _He looked like Pete._

“I—“ He’s got nothing, but oddly that seems to be what makes her realize he’s being truthful, because her voice softens.

“Just. Be a little more careful, okay?” She sighs. “I don’t know, maybe fuck a redhead next time.”

“I didn’t fuck him,” Chasten says.

“You have no idea how little I want to know,” Lis says, but he’s almost sure he can hear relief in her tone.

They don’t say goodbye. He deletes Grindr off his phone before he goes to sleep. 

**III.**

By the time he realizes he took the wrong route it’ll be a waste of time to turn back, so he grimly tries to prepare himself for the glimpses of South Bend that he’ll see between the trees along the Toll Road. 

He isn’t prepared for the wave of nausea that hits him when the road crosses the St. Joseph River. For a second he considers taking the next exit and stopping to get some air, but he doesn’t want to risk running into someone he knows, and resolves to stay on the road. 

It’s not lost on him that he’s just driven his old route from Chicago to South Bend, and now he’s about to drive their old route from South Bend to Traverse City. To distract himself from the fucking poignancy of it all he considers what to say to his mom when he gets there. 

He called her from the guest bedroom that first awful night, hiccuping out words between the sobs, telling her it was over. He called her again a few days later, from the car on his way to a crappy apartment in Chicago, feeling eerily like the last five years had been just a dream and he was about to land back in reality. For the last six weeks or so they’ve talked two or three times a week, and every time she’s asked him what happened. Every time, he’s begged off. He can’t evade it for a whole weekend at home, he knows that. And his mom won’t fall for ‘sometimes things just don’t work out’, either. He pulls up in front of the house still not sure what to say or how to say it.

She gives him until after dinner, nursing a cup of tea in the living room. 

“Sweetheart,” she says. “I need to know what happened with you and Peter.” 

For a petulant minute he considers asking why she _needs_ to know, but he shoves the impulse down. 

“I don’t know that it was something that happened, exactly,” he says, and hurries on before she can say whatever she’s thinking that’s making her frown. “The campaign was over and… Something that used to be there just wasn’t, anymore.” 

It’s not lost on him that he’s being more honest with her right now than he’s been with anyone in this process, including Pete. 

“What something?” she demands. “Love?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

He looks out the window at his dad working in the yard, because he can’t stand his mom’s kind, pitying eyes meeting his own. 

“Did you love him?” she asks finally, voice quavering, and he turns to face her in shock. 

“Of course I did! How can you even ask me that?” 

“Chasten,” she says, so heavily it feels like the entire world is held within those two syllables. “I know you cared about him, in a certain way. And you know what sort of reservations I had about him.”

“Apart from how he’s a man, you mean?” She winces and he kicks himself. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.” He swallows. “I know you were never convinced he was good to me. But he was,” he insists, suddenly choked up. 

“I never questioned whether he was good _to_ you, Bubby. I just was never sure he was good _for_ you.” 

“That’s the same thing,” he insists stubbornly. 

“You know it isn’t.” She pauses, looking out the window. She purses her lips, like she’s trying to decide if the next part is worth saying. “There’s a side to you,” she says slowly, “that can be very cold and calculating and... Vicious. I think Peter encouraged that side of you more than what was healthy.”

He suddenly feels very small, like a little boy on his parents’ couch. He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he replies.

“He didn’t do it on purpose.” 

“I know,” his mom says. “But did you really love him, or did you love what you thought you could achieve with him?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t, through the tears that are stealing his breath. His mom shuffles closer and envelops him in a hug. 

**IV.**

There’s no point staying up for the Indiana primary. Biden’s win is called as soon as the polls close. Chasten stays up with the South Bend local news channel’s livestream. He watches every county’s returns come in, and finds it relaxing to half-watch the familiar anchors’ chattering in between. 

He’s unprepared for them to cut to an interview with Pete. His heart skips a beat when Joshua Short introduces him and feels like it stops, outright, when his husband’s – _ex-husband’s_ – face fills the screen. Pete looks rested and calm as he walks Joshua through Biden’s strengths that led to him winning Indiana so handily. When he’s asked if his endorsement mattered for Biden’s support he laughs in the modest and self-deprecating way Chasten taught him and waves it away. Finally Joshua says ‘last question’ and Chasten finds himself able to breathe, only to have his breath stop again when he realizes the question is about Pete’s future. 

“Well, I want to be useful for the Biden campaign in any way they need,” he says and Chasten hopes the Bidens recognize what they’ve been given in Pete. Joshua pushes for more, but Pete gracefully evades the question in a way that makes Chasten soft and proud. 

He closes his laptop after the interview ends, and goes to bed thinking of Pete. He tosses and turns, drifts off just barely and wakes up again. He scrolls through his Twitter feed mindlessly and is just about to put his phone back down when he comes across a tweet from the dogs’ account. It was posted three minutes ago, so Pete must still be up. He’s pressed ‘send’ on the text before he even fully realizes he’s typing it. 

_Can we meet?_

It takes less than thirty seconds for the reply to come through. 

_**Of course. When?** _

_I’m off work tomorrow._ He bites his lip, unsure of the next part. _I need you to have your watch back._

He’s almost fallen back asleep by the time Pete’s answer comes back. It simply says ‘3 pm’ and lists an address he doesn’t recognize. He opens it in the Maps app and frowns when the red needle lands on a seemingly completely random intersection off the 31 north of Indianapolis. 

_Is that address right?_

_**Yes.** _

\---

He’s never driven from Chicago to Indianapolis before. After he turns off the highway and passes through Frankfort, there’s miles and miles of the occasional house surrounded by crops. When he leaves the 28, there aren’t even houses. From a mile away, he can see Pete’s car parked off the side of the intersection. Pete is standing next to it, leaning against the side, watching as Chasten approaches. 

Chasten pulls up next to him and gets out. It’s a beautiful day, and Pete is wearing a short sleeved shirt that draws Chasten’s eyes to his arms. The opener ‘have you been working out?’ half-forms and then fizzles out when he remembers the gravity of the situation. He wonders if they should hug.

“Hi,” he says instead. 

“Hi,” Pete replies. “You found it okay?”

Chasten looks around at the fields of corn and grass, then back at Pete. “It’s good to see you,” he says.

Pete swallows. “It’s good to see you too. I’m sorry for the long drive.” 

“That’s okay. Where are we? And, I guess, why are we here?” 

Pete peers out over one of the fields. “Did you know there used to be a Berlin, Indiana?”

He blinks. What? “I didn’t.” 

Pete picks up a heavy, worn book that’s been resting on the hood of the car. He leafs through the first few Bible-thin pages, then reads: “Berlin was laid on Indian Prairie in 1847 and was supposed to have fine prospects, but now – now being 1913, by the way”, he interjects with a smile, “– it is not on the map.” 

He puts the book back down and looks around. “The town was right here, somewhere, near the southeast corner of Johnson Township.”

Chasten licks his lips. His heart is pounding and he’s momentarily speechless, even as he’s starting to understand where Pete is going. 

"Getting back together with you in Berlin was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wouldn't have traded it for the world. But we were still broken, because we never got back to the way we used to be. I guess I didn’t realize until it was over.” He pauses, picks up a box from next to the book. Chasten feels dizzy when he realizes it’s a ring box. “And now we're in Berlin again,” Pete finishes. He smiles wryly. “Well, kind of. And I think we could do it right this time."

Chasten waits for him to open the ring box so it takes him a minute to realize Pete is waiting for him to say something. 

“I didn’t sleep with him,” he hears himself say. “The guy in the photos.”

“Okay,” Pete says cautiously. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had.” 

That’s probably not true, but Chasten chooses to let it go. “What,” he says, and tries frantically to sort through the hundreds of questions in his mind. “What makes you think it would be different now?”

“I think Biden’s going to win, and his VP, whoever she is, will run in four years and I won’t primary a black female vice president, because I’m not an idiot” Pete begins. “That means it’s going to be eight years, at least.” He pauses for a second, looks down at the ring box. “We always had a purpose, you and I,” he continues. “A motivating factor. The governorship, the White House. So when we didn’t have that… We didn’t know who we were together.” He sighs. “I didn’t know who I was, period.” 

“Oh, Peter,” Chasten breathes, but Pete doesn’t seem to hear it. He’s turning the box over and over in his hands. 

“I guess I still don’t, really. All I know is––” 

He stops, choked up. Chasten takes a step closer. He wants to reach out, hold Pete’s hand for this, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed. Then Pete looks up. His eyes are brilliant, and Chasten is mesmerized. 

“I don’t like who I am without you,” Pete finishes. “And I hate not being able to take care of you.” 

He opens the ring box and reaches it toward Chasten. 

“Please come home,” he says. “Please let me try to be a better husband to you.” 

There are two rings in the box – the one Chasten gave Pete back three months ago and one he doesn’t recognize. He takes the unfamiliar one out of the box, studies the narrow band and then looks at Pete, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“It’s stupid,” Pete says, shaking his head self-consciously and reaching out for the ring. 

“Explain it to me,” Chasten replies, moving the ring out of Pete’s reach. He’s hoarse with emotion. 

Pete looks down. “I got new rings. To symbolize a new commitment.” He looks up quickly. “I don’t mean to say our wedding wasn’t real,” he rushes to add. “And if you don’t want to wear two rings that’s fine, I just--”

“I love it,” Chasten interrupts. He slips the ring on, then takes his old one and puts that one on too. He makes a little show of admiring his hand with the rings on, then catches himself and stops. He sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out Pete’s watch. “I want you to have this back. But I don’t want you to wear it. We’ll get you a new one.” 

Pete takes it and nods, putting it in his own pocket and taking out two more rings, sliding them on his own ring finger. 

“Things would have to be different,” Chasten says, not sure why he’s using the conditional when they’ve already put the rings on. “We wouldn’t manipulate each other. Not lie to each other, anywhere. Not use each other. Not hurt each other on purpose.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees warily. 

“Will we know how to do that?” 

“I don’t know,” Pete confesses, and Chasten swallows nervously. 

“I don’t either.” 

He takes another step towards Pete and goes in for a kiss. 

“We can find out together,” he whispers against a stubbled cheek.


End file.
